ell, yes, Anne Sexton is doing an excellent job with her new column and The Editor is bound to be happy with all the publicity it has received. No problem there. Just the one teensy weensy leetle question from this here penthouse suite in Snort Towers: Ireland's first sex column? Oh really?
Never one to blow my own trumpet - firstly, I've never been that desperate; secondly, you'd need to be some class of a contortionist; and, thirdly, I have a budget specifically to cover that professional service, not to mention any number of eager amateurs who'd happily pay for the privilege - I now find myself in the unusual position of having to quote from my own work.

"Her prominent mazoomas rising and falling like two great zeppelins, Astrid, my personal assistant, gazed at me through sultry eyes and asked, in a voice heavy with the promise of some really, really dirty stuff: 'Well, Sam, what do you most like in a woman?" Without hesitating, I replied: "My dick". Shaking loose her hair and unzipping her one-piece leather cat suit in a single fluid movement, Astrid leaped with feline grace onto my shoulders, wrapping her hot, sweaty thighs around my head. "Let's git butt-nekked and fuck, big guy," she purred suggestively. "Mmmfffff," I replied good-naturedly, as my wand of love began to rise and fill the perfumed night with all the power and majesty of a full moon. A primeval howl of lust echoed throughout all the love canyons of the world: Wwwwwwuuuuuggh!"
So began my review of a Battle of the Bands in Toners in 1977 - which by my reckoning is a full 27 years before "Ireland's first sex column" ever saw the light of day.
Bitter? Not me. But for the record, it's worth stating that it was Samuel J Snort Esq who wrote the lexicon of leurve, introducing a world audience to such hedonistic concepts and linguistic delicacies as "love truncheon", "one-eyed trouser snake", "mutton dagger" and, of course, that wonderful amalgam of Shakespeare and The Fuckin' Nuge, "wang dang sweet poontang".

Ferocious Sex
And, as ever, Sam walked it like he talked it. Who told Madonna to do that sex book - and then wrote it for her? Who went out and bought the fish and chips - and then saaid; "On second thoughts, hold the chips" - the night Zep met that groupie in Seattle? Who told Daniel O' Donnell to keep his clothes on?
And who said: "When I guest-starred on The A-Team, I didn't read the script, because I was up all night with a couple of girls getting high and having ferocious sex"?
Actually that was my man Rick James but then the mad funketeer learned all his really important chops from Sam. Ferocious sex. Yes, the boy was a good student.
And then there was the great Millie Jackson who, back in the 70's, cut a rapper's delight called 'Keep The Home Fires Burnin'', a cautionary tale for an errant lover who'd been "flickin' his Bic all over town", as a result of which Millie warned him that one day he's return to find "another log in the fire, a log bigger than yours, a longer log than yours - and when the log burns down the coals stay hot."
Now some people might have thought that Millie was talking about the importance of domestic heating - indeed, at one point, I believe Bord Na Mona were considering using the song it for an ad campaign - but if I tell you that Millie and I happened to meet at an industry soiree around about this time, it's hardly a surprise that she had huge logs on her mind when she went into the studio.
I'm still at it, of course, in every sense. You're all familiar, no doubt, with Khia's hip hop raunch-fest 'My Neck My Back (Lick It)', the one with the chorus that goes "My neck, my back, lick my pussy and my crack". Hard to believe that up until the moment she was introduced to Sam, Khia had been planning a cover of Enya's 'Orinoco Flow'.

Dingbat Cleric
It's Sam too who, time and again, has led the charge - glistening sabre aloft and with a sword in his hand to boot -against Motherfucking Church and all other sex-hating manifestations of the Anti-Happiness League. Why, just the other night I was reading that some dingbat Belgian cleric was of the opinion that only 10 per cent of gay men and women were the real deal - the other 90 per cent being "perverts". A touch cheeky that, coming from a man of the cloth, non? But then these are the people who always tell us that in loving the sinner and hating the sin, we are entitled to show compassion to the individual homosexual whilst continuing to condemn homosexuality.
Sam, of course, sees thing a little differently - I too love the sinner but I really, really love the sin. That said, I'm happy enough to follow the Church's lead in one respect - from now on I too will endeavour to show compassion to the Christian but, of course, I will never ever condone Chritianity.
So it goes. The status of prophet without honour is one shared by many great men and women throughout history. Whether it's in sex journalism, rock 'n' roll, chemical experimentation, political corruption, human psychology, or the eradication of religion - new age, old time and all points in between - it matters not that Sam is and always has been the leader in the field, the alpha and omega, your first, your last, your everything.
What matters is that I know. And so does Mel Gibson. That's why, when he failed to secure the rights to my autobiography (The Passion Of The Snort), on the grounds that he was Mel Gibson after all, the poor old divil was forced to train his little camera on what can only be described as the second-greatest story ever told.
Or maybe even the third, after the definitive history of Foghat. And guess who's writing that?
Your ever lovin' Samuel J. Snort Esq.